The Reluctant Tutor
by Lucy Morningstar
Summary: An unlikely friendship blossoms between a teenager tutor and a young boy.


**The Reluctant Tutor**

I was at the bus stop that day, waiting for the bus to pick me up and send me home. I had just finished work, and was tired as hell. As I was sitting there languidly, staring at the road while my mind was whirling with some personal issues back at home, I saw a boy standing a few meters away from me.

The boy was a teenager, dressed in his school uniform and looking as tired as I was. He kept glancing at his watch, while his other hand pulled a bag strap. From my angle of view, I could see it was an expensive watch, the type they like to pass over the generations. It was probably given by his father as a gift.

A bus came. I couldn't remember what number it was but it wasn't _my _bus that's for sure. It stopped in front of the boy. The doors swung open, and the boy got in together with some others. I watched as he walked down the aisle slowly looking for a seat. The bus was nearly empty and the new passengers were taking their own sweet time. I wondered why people always have this indifferent expression when they walk inside a bus. It's like their heads are empty and full of other things at the same time. The boy finally chose a window seat, one that faced my side. He sat down, looking safe and relieved and briefly glanced outside. I got a full view of his face then. His face structure was no longer smooth, the bridge of his nose more prominent. His hair was short but untrimmed and pricked the shell of his ears. Back then five years ago, he had looked so petite and feminine-looking, and his young eyes bore a longing gaze. Even now when I see those eyes again looking back at me, I was struck as to how similar they looked to the ones that burned in my memory.

The bus sped off barely two seconds after our eyes met, and shortly after that, my bus came as well.

Five years ago, I was sitting with my father and his friend at a coffee shop. The two men were engaged in some uninteresting talk. To be exact, they were discussing which team would win that night's soccer match. I was too busy fiddling with my hand phone to keep up with them and did not notice when their conversation steered into another subject.

"You know, my son," my father's friend was saying, "He's taking his PSLE this year. He's been complaining with how the schoolwork has been taking a toll on him. I'm looking for someone to coach him in his studies, actually."

The man was the same age as my father-they were army buddies-and I was fond of him because of his good sense of humour.

"Why don't you ask my kid?" my father suddenly suggested. He placed a hand on my shoulder and looked at me in the eye.

"Huh?" I went.

"Why don't you go teach his son?" he said again. "You'll get some pocket money along the way. I mean, c'mon, primary six syllabus. How hard can it be?"

My father's friend lived several blocks away from us, so I went there as per arranged one Saturday morning.

The first time I saw him, I thought he was, well, cute.

The boy was already seated behind his desk when I arrived, his books and stationery ready. His hair was combed neatly to one side and his hands were placed on his lap. He looked small for his age, and he was sitting in this big country-style chair that was probably dragged out from the kitchen table. Another empty chair, the same one, was placed beside him. Standing at the doorway of his room, I was suddenly overcome with this feeling that he had been waiting for me for a very long time.

When I came in, I thought I heard music. The kid was listening to Andy Williams' _A Time For Us_ on the desk radio. There was just something funny with the image of him in the big bulky chair while sweeping epic music surrounded him.

"Don't you think it's a lovely song?" he asked, as I placed my things beside him. It was the first thing he said to me. His voice was fine and lower than I expected, like the first strains of a piano sonata.

"Huh?" I went, then, "Oh. Yeah. Do you like listening to classics?"

He nodded to the radio.

I peered at the boy's face. I could make out some fine veins under his translucent cheek. His eyelashes were long and thick, which reminded me of a giraffe I saw when I visited the zoo a month ago. Also, the right corner of his lips was slightly curved. I wasn't sure whether he was smiling or it just happened to be his natural look. It was a strange expression, the kind you give to people when you're waiting for them to say something. In any case, he looked nothing like his father.

"_A time for us, some day there'll be... A new world, a world of shining hope for you and me..._"

I sat down beside him, clasped my hands together and listened to the boy as he started to sing.

"You should join the choir," I told him one day. "Since you like singing so much."

By then weeks had passed and my lessons with him had gone smoothly. I had absolutely no problems teaching the boy. He was undoubtedly smart and fast-learning. He took in everything I said and applied them. His school grades were fantastic, even better than mine back when I was in primary school. It was a breeze reviewing his subjects. It made me wonder why the hell he needed tuition.

At the same time I had to admit, the child was strange in his own way. I always felt uneasy when looking at him, what with those big eyes and puzzling half-smile. He would insist on playing the radio when I taught him. He said music stimulated his brain when he did his homework. I told him listening to Mozart and Bach would be better, but he was stuck with his oldies. Sure he did not talk much, but he was not unfriendly. I could sense he was the introverted and independent type, one that would rather be lost in his own world of music, than play with the other children.

"I don't like to sing when people ask me to," he replied. "I prefer singing on my own accord."

"Oh yeah? So what school CCA are you in?"

"Soccer," he said simply.

"No wonder you have such nice legs," I joked. I used to play soccer as a kid, but I was fat then and my legs were not as slim as his. "Well you really don't look like the sporty type at all."

He turned and gave me that usual weird expression. "You shouldn't judge a book by the cover. Also," he said, his smile growing," looks can be deceiving."

I laughed. "Cliché, but true."

An incident happened during my tenure as his tutor. I had slipped outside for a quick smoking break at the staircase, taking long slow drags from my cigarette as Matt Monro's baritone voice flowed out smoothly from inside the boy's bedroom window. It was a one of a kind, wonderful feeling.

Alas, the pleasure was cut short when he caught me.

The boy was leaning from behind the wall corner, watching.

"Shit," I muttered. I stood up and threw my stick away hurriedly on instinct, then wiped my palms at the back of my pants.

"I didn't know you smoked," the boy said casually, like he was commenting about the weather.

"Well..I do. And I'm sorry you had to see that."

He peered at me from below. "Why are you apologizing?" he asked.

"Because you probably think I'm a bad influence now."

"It doesn't mean you are bad when you smoke."

"Oh yeah?" I walked forward and tousled his long hair.

I knelt in front of him. "You promise not to tell your dad?" I asked in a serious voice, as I held him by his shoulders. We were now looking directly into each other's eyes. I knew it was probably not the right way to handle the situation with a kid, but I had no choice. This was vital. If anyone knew of this, there'll be some hell to pay.

He nodded dutifully.

"That's my boy."

I stood up and we walked back into the house hand in hand.

"I wonder if there's anything else you have been hiding from me," he said after we entered his room. He sounded as though he had spent a long time thinking about it. I sat on his bed and beckoned him to do the same.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, sheepishly. "Do I look like I keep many secrets?"

He shrugged and stared at me wordlessly, until I became uncomfortable.

"I think one secret alone is enough," I replied at last. "How about you, any secrets you never told anyone?"

I gave the boy some time to think as I took the pillows on the bed and propped them against my back.

"And what makes you think I'm going to tell you anything?"

"Hey, it's only fair. You caught me smoking and that is some confidential information. I need something against you too."

"How old are you?" he then asked, squinting at me.

"I'm nineteen."

"Then you're of legal age to smoke. There is technically nothing wrong with that."

"Yeah, but do you ever wonder if my parents will cut off my head if they find out?"

"That is between you and them. It has nothing to do with me."

"Gee, it really doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

"It doesn't surprise me, that's for sure. Unless I saw you walking back to your spaceship, now_ that_ is something."

I breathed out a laugh. The boy sure had a way of talking. When I think of it, I could just close my eyes and listen to his voice to sleep. There was something comforting, something soothing about the effect of his voice on me, like the scent of lavender or maybe, anaesthesia. I'm not saying his voice makes you want to crawl under the blanket and sleep. Rather, the more I listened to his voice, the more relaxed and at ease I felt.

"I've got a tattoo on my chest," I said suddenly.

The boy's eyes darted to me, then slowly to my chest.

"Do you want to see it?" I said again. He remained quiet. I took it as an affirmative, or rather, I saw that I had no choice. If you're suggesting something, then you might as well do it.

I slipped off my jacket and pulled down the neckline of my tank top, enough to expose the mark sitting precisely 5 inches below my right collarbone.

It was of a simple, single red poppy in full bloom. I had gotten inked in a dingy tattoo parlour in town after losing a bet with my friends.

The boy stared at it for a long time. He looked intrigued but rigid at the same time, as if he was studying an Alsatian at the other side of a gate.

"Cool," he said at last. He gave me that look again, his eyes transmitting some kind of message to mine. I thought it was odd, but I nodded anyway. Raising his arm, he cautiously brushed the tip of his index finger against my breast. Then, as if ascertained that it was safe, he began to stroke and rub it slowly and tenderly, curious and testing, and even pinched it to see if it would come off. My skin soon turned red.

"It's a poppy," I told him. "They make opium out of it."

"You mean like The Wizard of Oz."

"Sorry?"

"In the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy came to the Field of Poppies and fell into a deep slumber."

I thought about it. "Poor Dorothy."

The boy blew gently on my tattoo. "Poor? Imagine what wonderful dreams she must have had then. Dreams people like us will never experience in this world."

He leaned back afterwards, his shoulders hunched and gave a long sigh. There was a picture of satisfaction on his face. He looked strangely contented. He stayed like that for a long time, not speaking or moving, his eyes directed at my chest, but glazed and point off; somewhere else. Was he thinking of Dorothy and her dreams of Emerald City? I had no idea. I decided to release my hand off my top and put on my jacket back. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I told him I was going home.

"Could you...wait for me?" he asked, as I walked outside to the gate.

"Yes?" I said.

"Wait for me," he repeated. Only half of his body peeked through his door, like a child creeping out of his room past bedtime. Again, that lowered gaze. I looked back at him for awhile.

"You know," I started, "I swear when you reach secondary school, all these girls are going to go crazy for you, and that is when you will forget all about poor old me."

"That's never gonna happen."

"You wanna bet, kid?"

The boy smiled and looked away, his cheeks red. I grinned.

Two weeks before his final exams I sat down with his father for a chat and dinner. Usually he paid me monthly by transferring the money to my bank account, but that night I had a feeling he was going to hand it over to me personally.

"Time sure flies fast, eh," he said, lighting up a cigarette.

"Sure does, sir. Feels just like yesterday when you asked me to teach him."

His father chuckled before blowing a cloud of smoke. "Well, what do you want to order? Come on, don't be shy. I know you haven't eaten for the whole day."

When the waiter came I ordered fish soup for myself and lemon tea, while the man ordered chicken rice and black coffee for himself.

"Fish soup? Are you feeling sick?" the boy's father asked.

"Nah, just feeling hot," I answered politely, smiling back.

"Are you? Even my son has been complaining of heatiness lately. It must be the weather, eh."

"I guess so." The same waiter came again with our drinks and the man handed him a 50-dollar note. "Did your son say anything else?" I then asked, opening my can.

"What would he say? Oh. He says he really likes you. Looks up to you and everything."

"Thanks, but what I mean is, his exams are coming after all. Maybe he's feeling the pressure."

"No, my son is a smart kid. I'm sure he has no problem. Did you know he skipped kindergarten precisely because he was so smart?"

I looked back at him in surprise for a very long while.

"You mean he's only _ten_?"

"He's certainly mature for his age," he continued as if I had said nothing. "Although sometimes I wish he would just act like a kid for once." That said the man tilted his head up and exhaled slowly. I had to admit watching him brought out some cravings within me.

"Wow. But yeah, I don't get it. If he's that smart, why did you bother getting someone to teach him?"

He smirked. "What exactly did you actually teach him?"

"Huh?" I went, feeling even confused.

"I just wanted him to make a new friend that's all. Someone who can take care of him when I'm out at work. The kid stays in his room all weekend, listening to that radio of his. I don't know what the hell he does in there." Then he tapped his stick on the ashtray, as if concluding whatever there was needed to be said. I stared at him, agape, until the waiter came again with our food.

"Come on, eat up. It's all good."

So that was it. After three months of sacrificing my Saturday mornings, I learnt that I had actually been conned into a babysitting job.

I drank my lemon tea quietly, feeling a myriad of mixed emotions.

I met the boy again the next week after for our last "lesson". This time I brought a nice red mechanical pencil for him, as a good luck present. His face brightened when he saw it. He gave me a hug and thanked me.

"Like it?" I asked. It was an obvious question, but I couldn't help myself.

He nodded, beaming and swinging his legs.

"I want you to use it for your exams okay. And even after you're in secondary school. Can you do that?"

He nodded again with a smile, and suddenly, I simply wished I was a child just like him. Was I doing when I was one? Getting into trouble and playing soccer all day long. Having a crush on the class monitor in school. Saving money to buy cards. A time of innocence. A time of ignorant, guilt-free and worriless innocence. Like water, time seemed to flow by more carelessly then.

The boy sighed wisftully, leaning on my shoulder. The mechanical pencil twirled around between his small fingers, a bright red against his fair white skin.

"I'm gonna miss you," I told him. He said nothing, putting his entire focus on the pencil as he played with it. I pulled him slightly away from me, then I lowered my head to kiss his temple. The breeze flew in from the open window and I could smell the salty fresh scent of his sweat. I kissed his cheek. He still didn't respond. His fingers forever twirling and his legs swinging. I put my hand on his waist and brought him closer to me. At that moment his other hand suddenly flew to mine, and he gripped it as if trying to pry it off, but he didn't; he merely grabbed at my hand that was on his waist and stayed there.

We then heard the familar call of the rag-and-bone man downstairs as he made his rounds under the blocks. I listened intently. I wondered how tiring it was to work like that and how much money the man earned, and then I thought about our first lesson together, and every event that had transpired until to that very second itself we were experiencing then. How he had sung, how he had caught me smoking and how I had let him touch me. And no matter how hard I tried, I could not pick a reason as to why they happened, and what I was supposed to learn from it.

Staring at the mechanical pencil in his hand, I wished I had given him something else better.

Three months later I received a call from his father. He told me that his son had received his exam results and done exceptionally well, and had gotten into a top school of his choice. He wasn't surprised, the father said. Both of us weren't surprised. He also asked if I was interested in coming back to "teach" him. I replied that I was busy with stuff, and would think of it.

I started getting regular calls from his father since then, and not knowing what to answer, I would just leave my phone to ring. I felt that I could not face his son again, face the closeness I had had with him. It would be like glancing back inside a well where I had thrown something inside. It was all over. My job was done. I no longer had any interest to re-experience that closeness, or to prolong it. I didn't want to meet him over the weekends for some empty chit-chat and ask about his future. I felt like I didn't care anymore or be bothered. Everything had been concluded during my last lesson with him. I had left with him something of mine that I was not going to take back. To me it made no sense to make more out of something that had ended. Or perhaps, it was just me making a cowardly move, as if there was something I was trying to avoid.

Soon his father stopped calling. Months passed, then years. I started working as an intern at a publishing company. I let my hair grew long and I started wearing dresses. I dated a colleague and eventually quitted smoking. Life went without a hitch. Each day new memories were created, accumulating and then forgotten. As a adult I acquired a new pragmatic mindset, and there were just so many things in life to think about then.

I boarded my bus and quickly took the nearest seat to me. The bus started moving and I looked at the other unfortunate souls standing before me who had not gotten to sit.

The boy. He had a particuliar smile about him, didn't he? Something peculiar. I closed my eyes and dug into the recesses of my mind to search for that particular memory, and when it came back my chest shuddered.

**fin**


End file.
